We never spoke, then or later, of what had happened in the wood.
Foster arranged our night’s lodging with no trouble at all; the small hotel where we enquired had separate (and cheaper) arrangements for black servants — grooms, drivers and so on. As luck would have it, I saw an old pair of trousers lying on the floor in the black servants’ dormitory, and was glad enough to change them for my own.
As soon as he had seen and approved his quarters, Foster told me that what he meant to do now was something he felt sure would agree with me very well. He wanted me, he said, to do him credit when we found our ship, met the captain and so on; and he was going to buy me a new suit of clothes, a couple of shirts, a good, thick seagoing jersey, a pair of stout shoes and woollen stockings to go with them.
Naturally, I was overcome by this generosity. I began to feel better at once and could hardly find words to thank him. He replied that it was for his benefit as much as mine. It wouldn’t look well tomorrow if his servant were wearing dirty old clothes. I told him I’d never worn shoes or stockings in my life and he said that at that rate we could think about them later, when we’d got to England.
It became an exciting and enjoyable afternoon, the only drawback being that I was quite unused to wearing clothes like these; and I felt odd in them. The tailor, however, assured me that they were a very good fit, and that I would soon get used to them. He suggested that I should go outside and stroll up the street and back. (My master was a minister, so he knew we were trustworthy, he said.)
When I got outside, I was sure that I must look as odd as I felt. But my timidity vanished as I walked on amongst both black and white people, who were plainly indifferent to my appearance, although one stout white man, striding along, deliberately jostled me into the gutter. All the same, I was finally convinced when I met two young black girls who were idling along, looking in the shop windows. Both of them looked at me with obvious admiration, and when I said “Good afternoon”, they broke into happy smiles but could find no reply. I returned to the tailor and told him he had persuaded me. Foster paid him in cash and he called his boy to carry the parcel to our hotel.
The following morning, I dressed in my new clothes and as soon as Foster and I had finished our respective breakfasts, he tipped the ostler to bring our “horse and cart” from the stables, and off we set for the port and the sea.
I had formed no mental picture of “the sea”, and as Foster pulled up at the top of the hill overlooking the harbour, I was fairly trembling with excitement. Below us lay the town, with its roofs and streets. Its further edge was made up of anchored vessels large and small; and beyond lay the sea.
As I sat staring at the expanse of blue water shining under the morning sun, I realised that apparently it had no further edge. The sky met the sea. And beyond that? Presumably more sea, more sky. Then my eye fell upon a moving object coming towards us, floating on the water, and men standing on it. Why didn’t it sink? And we, Foster and I, were intending to travel on a floating thing like that, all the way to England, wherever that might be.
Foster must have read my thoughts. “You needn’t be afraid, Daniel,” he said. “You’ll be quite safe. Ships really do float. And they go along, too, with the wind in their sails to drive them. We’ll go down and make their further acquaintance.”
He got out and fitted an iron shoe to one of the wheels, explaining that this would slow us down and make the descent easier for the horse. Then we slithered down the rather steep hill and having arrived at the foot, pulled up for a rest while Foster explained to me why ships didn’t sink. We drove on, stopped at the first inn we came to and paid them to put up our “horse and cart” and take care of our luggage (such as it was) until we came back for our midday dinner.
“Where are we going now?” I asked, as we crossed the road to the seaward side.
“To find our ship,” replied Foster. “The first thing we’ll do is pay a visit to the harbour-master and see whether he can give us any useful advice.”
The harbour-master’s office, we were told, was about half a mile along the seafront. Foster said there was plenty of time, and we dawdled beside the moored boats and ships, while I asked scores of questions and Foster answered them as well as he could. Once we stopped to watch while several loads of crates and heavy boxes were winched across to the open hold of a ship and lowered down. I admired the skill and confidence of the man working the crane.
“Well, he gets plenty of practice,” replied Foster. “It’s highly-skilled work, of course, and no doubt he’s paid accordingly. If he accidentally let one of those crates drop on a man’s head, he’d be in trouble.”
“So would the man, I expect,” I answered. “Does it ever happen?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Foster. “But I don’t know much about matters of that sort.”
We didn’t have to wait long at the harbour-master’s office, where there were two or three young clerks on duty, all with various papers piled up in front of them. Foster explained that we were bound for England, and if possible would like to travel as passengers on some merchant ship. We would, of course, pay the captain accordingly; we weren’t out to drive a bargain, and we didn’t mind how long the crossing took.
The young man conferred with one of his colleagues. As he did so he nodded in our direction, and I formed the impression that once again Foster’s being a minister was telling in our favour. At length he returned and said that he could tell us of something suitable, although of course we would have to work out the terms with the captain. His name was Captain Longside, and he was well known to the harbour-master as an honest man and a thoroughly reliable sailor. His ship was a brig, the Robin. Hood, lying at Berth 23. If we were going to see him, we should tell him that we had seen himself, Mr. Dearing, and that he had recommended us.
Money changed hands, but I didn’t look to see how much.
Berth 23 turned out to be only a short walk away, and we stopped to admire the Robin Hood before looking for Captain Longside. Knowing nothing whatever about ships, I thought she looked very attractive. Her decks were clean and she had a neat, trim appearance that made me want to sail away on board her as soon as we could.
A gangplank was in place and Mr. Foster went on board, while I followed two or three yards behind, at what I hoped was a properly respectful distance. We had hardly stepped down onto the deck before a man in overalls came up and asked our business. Mr. Foster said that if it was convenient he would like to have a word with the captain; whereupon, the man told us to wait while he went to see whether the captain was on board. After a short time another man appeared who, from his clean clothes and air of authority, I guessed could only be the captain. He wore a peaked cap, was smoking a pipe and had about him a certain look of scepticism, as of a man not much given to smiling. As he came up to us he did not offer his hand to Foster, and the way he glanced at me made me move still further off.
He spent a considerable time in conversation with Foster and I could see that he was asking questions. More than once Foster shook his head emphatically.
Finally, he turned and beckoned to me to join them. I ran up but kept my eyes on the ground.
“What’s your name?” asked the captain.
“Daniel, sir.”
“How old are you?”
I had never been at all sure about this, but I replied with an age that I thought must be about right.
“Do you want to go to England? Won’t you be leaving a lot behind?”
“No, sir. I’m well off as a servant to Mr. Foster.”
We followed the Captain down a companion ladder to the lower deck, where he opened the door of a cabin containing two bunks.
“Thank you, Captain,” said Foster. “I’m sure we’ll be very comfortable. Shall I pay you now?”
The Captain replied with a nod, and Foster followed him (as I guessed) to his office. Their business was soon done, and the two of us went ashore for dinner.
When we came back that evening,
there was a note in our cabin from the Captain, asking Foster to dine with the mate and himself, and adding that he was sure I would be well looked after in the fo’c’s’le by Mr. Miles, the Bo’sun.
I unpacked and stowed our stuff as Foster directed. When everything had been done to his satisfaction, he washed his hands, combed his hair and left to join his hosts.
Sitting alone in the cabin, the excitement that I had hitherto felt at the prospect of sailing to England drained out of me and I began to think realistically of what I was leaving behind. While it was true that Foster had saved me from being sold by Mr. Reynolds into slavery in some remote place I did not know, the melancholy truth remained that I was now to be taken away from Doth, from my family and the estate, the only place familiar to me, the only place I had ever dwelt. The future was unknown and I felt ill-equipped to encounter it. I was about to be setting off to a distant country, and perhaps would never return to America. Of England I knew nothing, but I had no alternative. Like waves breaking over me, things were happening now over which I had no control.
After a depressing half hour’s meditation, I followed Foster’s suggestion and made my way forward into the fo’c’s’le, where I found the Bo’sun and four or five of the crew. When I explained that I was servant to Mr. Foster, who was sailing to England on the ship, Mr. Miles told me to sit down, make myself at home and have a drink. He was a big, burly man with a shock of black hair and rolled-up sleeves showing hairy forearms. The drink was whisky, which I had never tasted in my life. I couldn’t imagine how anyone could drink it for pleasure.
“There’s fifteen crew altogether,” said Miles. “Eight or nine of us are English, sailed with the ship quite a few times. The rest have signed on just for this trip. They’re new boys, like yourself.”
This seemed a reasonably good start, and I kept silent and listened to the conversation, which seemed to be largely about horses. The remainder of the crew arrived in the course of the evening, four or five together and the rest one by one. One of them was black, and we caught each other’s eyes and smiled as he passed me.
Supper came in: an excellent beef stew, followed by treacle tart. But here I was embarrassed: everyone except me had his own knife, fork and spoon. The cook lent me a set out of the galley, but I felt silly and out of countenance, especially when I realised that I wouldn’t be able to buy a set until we reached England.
“Never been to sea before?” someone asked, and when I admitted it and explained that I was no sailor but Mr. Foster’s servant, he went on “Then you’ll find there’s a lot to learn, Darkie.”
Miles told the crew that we were to sail with the tide at three o’clock that morning. I would have liked to watch us sail away, but thought I might only be in the way, and decided to go on making myself as unobtrusive as possible. I went back to our cabin and, finding Foster not yet returned, went to bed and soon fell asleep.
When I woke next morning, I was immediately conscious of the movement of the ship. She was rolling from side to side and it cost me an effort to stagger forward to the fo’c’s’le, where the kindly cook gave me a substantial breakfast.
Having eaten, I went up on deck. It was a fine day, the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky. It excited me to see the spread sails and the ship’s white wake, and to look back at the town we had left growing smaller and smaller in the distance. I had left Foster asleep, but when I went back to our cabin I found him dressing and plainly in good spirits. While he went off to breakfast, I made the beds, swept the floor and generally tidied up.
It was quite some time before he reappeared. I had stayed in the cabin in case he might want me for anything else. However, he only complimented me on what I had done, and said he was now going to teach me what he called “one or two things I needed to know”.
We began with “telling the time”, which I found easy enough once I had got the hang of it. Foster said I was a quick learner, and we went on to reading. The alphabet I found much harder, although Foster was patient and seemed positively to enjoy explaining the letters and sounds as many times as I asked. When I spelt out “c”, “at”, “cat”, he clapped his hands, said I was beginning very well and that that would do for one day. He put an arm round my shoulders, pressed me to himself for a moment and planted a quick kiss on my forehead. I thanked him for the trouble he’d taken and, as he settled himself with a book, asked permission to go back on deck.
For some time I stood watching the sailor at the wheel. I could grasp that there must be a connection between the binnacle and the slight movements of his hands, but I couldn’t understand why the binnacle seemed to play so large a part in the business of steering. And again, how did the ship respond to the wheel? What was the secret of steering? I didn’t dare to ask questions, not even when the sailor turned his head and gave me a friendly wink.
I felt a tug on my sleeve and, turning, found the young black sailor beside me.
“How are you getting on?” he asked. I told him I thought I was settling in quite comfortably. I asked him several of my questions about the ship, and in the light of his replies I began to understand a good deal.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Daniel,” I replied. “And yours?”
“Bernard Watney. But folks mostly call me ‘Snowball’.”
“Do you mind that?”
“Oh, no. It’s friendly, after all.”
“Are you English? Do you come from England?”
“Well, I was born there. But when I was seventeen I ran away to sea and I’ve been a sailor ever since; here, there and everywhere.”
“No wife? No children?”
“Lord, no. They’d only cost money and get in the way. I’m hoping to be taken on as first mate before much longer. I’ve served with several captains I reckon might not be sorry to take me on as mate.”
“Does it hinder you, being black?”
“Not at sea it doesn’t. That’s partly why I’ve stuck to the sea. America’s not a good place to be black, you know.”
“What about England?”
“It’s patchy, really, is England. There’s some good places and some bad. But tell me about yourself. Anyone can see you’re no sailor; so what are you?”
“I’m a slave. A ‘nigger’.”
“You mean, born a slave?”
“And grew up a slave.” I told him about Massa Reynolds’s estate, and about the slave village and the field work. Then I told him about Missus Kathy and our “abode”. I told him about Henderson and how he murdered Jeckzor. And finally I told him about how I had killed Flikka, and come away with the Reverend Foster, to go with him to England.
“And do you like that idea?”
“Yes, I think I do. Foster’s been kind to me. If I hadn’t become his servant, I’d have been sold a slave.”
Bernard was silent. He seemed to be deliberating with himself whether to speak again. At length he asked, “Had you ever seen Mr. Foster before?”
“How could I? I told you, I’d never been outside the plantation in my life.”
He said no more, but I felt curious. “How d’you mean? I couldn’t have seen him before, could I?”
Hesitantly, he replied, “I – I’ve seen him: I’ve seen him before.”
“What? How could you have? In England, do you mean?”
“Yes. In England.”
“But where, for goodness sake?”
After another pause, he asked, “Are you sure you want to know?”
I frowned in perplexity. “Well, yes, of course. Why shouldn’t I want to know? Where have you seen him before?”
“I’ve seen him – er – in prison.”
“You wouldn’t be pulling my leg, by any chance?”
“No, Daniel, I’m not. I’ve seen him before, in England, when we were both in prison, in a town called Winchester. But we didn’t meet then, didn’t know each other.”
I said nothing, but waited.
“When I was sixteen, I was sent to prison for
three months, for stealing from shops. That was why, when I came out, I ran away to sea.”
“And you say Foster was there too?”
“Yes, he was. I was in a group of young, short-sentence prisoners. Our lot were taken out to work separately. Sometimes we had to wait in the courtyard until the two prison guards who took us out were ready; and that’s where I saw Foster more than once, in another gang. I’d know him again anywhere.”
“Bernard, are you quite sure? I mean, if you had the least doubt, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”
“I can’t be in any doubt at all. We never spoke to each other, but more than once I was near enough to hear his voice; that’s how I was sure when I heard it here, on the ship. When I felt certain it must be him, I hung about, pretending to be busy with a rope, while he was talking to the Bo’sun on deck.”
“Do you know what he was sent to prison for?”
“No. But of course you’ll realise it wouldn’t be any good to bring it up now. He’s done his time and now he’s as free as we are. But if he’s really a clergyman, then I’m St. Peter.”
“What do you think I ought to do? Or ought I to do nothing?”
“Daniel, if I were you, I’d avoid arousing the least suspicion – on his part, I mean — until we’re paid off at Bristol; and then I’d find a way to leave him — some way, any way.”
“But I’ve got no work in England. I don’t know anyone; and I don’t know the country at all.”
“Well, I can’t be of any help to you there, because I mean to sign on with another ship as soon as I can. But if you can’t come up with something, you’re not the lad I took you for. Let’s go and have dinner.”
That afternoon I had another reading lesson with Foster. Later, I went back to the fo’c’s’le, where I watched two of the crew playing chess. One of them good-naturedly offered to teach me and by the time he had to go on duty I had become altogether taken with the game.
That same evening I had an accident. I still wasn’t entirely used to the movement of the ship; and crossing the deck I slipped and fell, getting a blow on the head. Mr. Miles happened to be nearby and saw me fall. He came over at once, pulled me up and supported me while I did my best to collect my wits.
Daniel Page 5